Murder of a Snob

by Roy Vickers

  “If you thought that, why have you come to police headquarters?”

  “There’s the difficult problem of Benscombe.” Fenchurch realised with a shock that Benscombe himself was behind the other roll top desk. “I say, old man, I hope you don’t resent my going over your head to the higher authority, but I honestly don’t see any other way.”

  “I don’t resent it,” said Benscombe, “because I don’t know what it’s about.”

  Fenchurch turned back to the Chief Constable: he spoke as one resolved to state a grievance in moderate terms. “I have rung Benscombe no fewer than five times to ask him for another sitting. Four times he was out: when I caught him, he said he had urgent duty. I don’t doubt he was speaking the literal truth. In the conception of the modern policeman, which I am trying to paint, the idea of lying or any kind of counter-criminality is excluded. But how can we get anything done if he’s always on urgent duty!”

  “So you want me to release him from his duties here so that he can sit in your studio?” asked Crisp.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest,” beamed Fenchurch. “With reasonable luck, another three sittings ought to be enough.”

  Benscombe was waiting for the explosion which did not come.

  “I’d be very pleased to do that for you, Mr. Fenchurch. Benscombe, hold yourself ready to go to the studio when required.” It seemed mere irony until Crisp added, with significance: “You will be on duty.”

  “Thanks most awf’ly!” The long face was illumined with boyish pleasure. “I suppose I’d better buzz off now. You chaps look awf’ly busy. Cheerio and thanks again! I’m sorry about poor old Ralph. Could I have a word with him before I go?”

  “Yes—if he’s willing to see you,” answered Crisp. “But you realise that a police officer will have to be present?”

  “Really? I’m afraid that kills it stone dead. You see, I wanted to say something terrifically private.” As if that were not sufficiently ingenuous, he added: “And it’s rather tied up with the murder.”

  “Then why not write to him—I’ll see that he gets it,” offered Crisp, who had grasped the wisdom of taking the artist’s point of view, since the artist seemed incapable of taking that of the police.

  “Thanks, I will. I want him to get it before they salt him away in Broadmoor. Of course, you’ve spotted that he’s stark mad, like Watlington. A good chap, though! Very decent of him to own up. I’ll admit now that I was horribly scared when you were asking me all those questions about clocks and things. I don’t suppose you believed a word of what I told you about those letters!”

  Fenchurch laughed at a danger passed.

  “Remember how hot-and-bothered we got over what people do with their old envelopes?” He spoke on his way to the door. “Funnily enough, I found that particular old envelope. Cheerio!”

  Benscombe got to the door first. He held the handle as if he feared the other might slither away.

  “Do you mean,” asked the Chief Constable, “that you have found the envelope in which Watlington sealed up your letters with his Will?”

  “That’s it! I knew it was the same, because it had his seal on it, more or less intact. I thought you’d be amused!”

  He had the air of being pleased that he had amused the Chief Constable—a little acknowledgment of his kindness in the matter of Benscombe’s duty.

  “I am amused,” said Crisp. “Where is that envelope now?”

  “Oh I say, Colonel!” Fenchurch was disappointed.

  “I must have an answer, Mr. Fenchurch.”

  “But don’t you see it’s the same question that upset us all last time? ‘What Becomes of Old Envelopes?’ We don’t want to start that again!”

  “I want to,” said Crisp. “But let’s both be amiable about it this time, shall we! To begin with, where did you find that envelope?”

  “In my pocket.” Fenchurch added brightly: “The one place we never thought of searching!”

  Crisp remembered that they had not searched for it at all, because he had not believed Fenchurch’s story of Watlington ripping up the envelope himself and handing over the letters. He was no readier to believe the present statement that it had been found.

  “We shall have to begin at the beginning,” sighed Crisp. “The first step is to ask yourself when and where you put it in your pocket.” As Fenchurch looked blank and miserable: “Come now, you must have put it in your pocket yourself.”

  “That’s the devil of it! If someone else were to put something in my pocket I’d notice and remember. But surely it must have been when I was talking to Watlington!”

  That, of course, was what he wanted the police to believe. Crisp was determined to find that envelope or compel Fenchurch to admit that he was inventing the whole incident to support Claudia.

  “Start at the other end, then. Visualise the moment when you surprised yourself by finding this very important envelope in your own pocket. Where were you?”

  “In the flat. After breakfast this morning, I pulled it out—noticed how bad the design of the seal was. Then I noticed the other end where Watlington had ripped it open. I immediately thought of you!”

  Crisp turned on him fiercely.

  “Are you going to tell me that you thereupon burnt that envelope?”

  “Oh no! I remember trying to work out whether it proved me innocent or guilty. I knew you had woven that envelope into your fantasy on that piece of brown paper. So I thought I’d better not burn it, in case it turned out to be on my side. Of course, I didn’t know then that poor old Ralph was carrying the baby. As it is, I can’t remember what I did with it.”

  For twenty years, Crisp had schooled himself in keeping his temper.

  “But you remember that you decided not to burn it but to keep it,” he said.

  “There’s nowhere to keep anything in that flat,” muttered Fenchurch.

  “Then perhaps you remember wishing you had a safe place in which to keep it?”

  Fenchurch clutched his hair excitedly.

  “You’ve got something there, Colonel! Keep it up, if you can. Ask me some more questions, quickly!”

  “You locked it in a drawer? … You took it to your bank? … You stuffed it at the back of one of your pictures?”

  Exasperated by the other shaking his head at each question, Crisp cried: “Dammit, Fenchurch, did you put it back in your pocket?”

  Fenchurch’s hand shot to his side pocket. The child-like smile dawned again and spread over his face.

  He drew out and unfolded the long envelope, sealed at one end, ripped at the other, bearing the printed address of a firm of solicitors.

  “Absolutely amazing!” he exclaimed, as he handed it to Crisp. “I never thought you’d pull it off!”

  Crisp was examining the back of the envelope on which was a pencilled note in a round, immature handwriting.

  ‘Tarranio: “Casa Flavia,” Caversham Street, Soho, W.’

  Fenchurch seemed to be expecting congratulation of some sort.

  “I say, Colonel, would it have proved anything about me if poor old Ralph hadn’t spoilt all the clueage?”

  “I don’t know yet. Would you mind sitting at that other desk for a moment. Give him a pencil, Benscombe. Now, Mr. Fenchurch, will you please write the following: ‘Tarranio, Casa Flavia, Caversham Street—”

  “Caversham Street! That’s what I couldn’t remember. He must be in the telephone book as a limited company or something. I couldn’t find him. That address is written on the envelope, isn’t it?”

  Crisp made no answer. Fenchurch, with a touch of unease, chattered on:

  “Tarranio is the Italian wine merchant who fascinated you. I didn’t know until the other day that he has a restaurant in Town.”

  Benscombe removed the sheet on which Fenchurch had written part of the address, in his bold, ornate script.

  “That address, as you surmise, was pencilled on this envelope,” said Crisp. “Did Watlington give you the information?”


  “You’re losing touch, Colonel! Watlington had never heard of Tarranio until I mentioned him on Saturday afternoon. Don’t you remember sleuthing his blotting pad?”

  “Then who wrote this address for you on the back of this envelope? You didn’t write it yourself.”

  “Didn’t I? Then Ralph must have written it for me. It was he who mentioned Tarranio’s restaurant. That was while we were loafing about on the terrace on Saturday night, waiting to hear which of us would drop in for the murder.”

  “Take time before you answer the next question, Fenchurch,” warned Crisp. “Here’s this envelope. Look at it, Watlington’s envelope. Watlington’s seal. Who produced this envelope on the terrace for note-taking purposes? You —or Ralph?”

  “Presumably, I did.”

  “Did you indeed! May I take it that, when you were interviewing Watlington, you picked up this—old envelope —and put it in your pocket? While you’re pondering your answer, let me remind you that you have been very sarcastic about old envelopes and old pieces of brown paper. In effect, you refused to account for the piece of brown paper. You’ll have to account for this envelope, Fenchurch.”

  “This is rapidly becoming horrible!” moaned Fenchurch.

  “Look at the size—feel the thickness of this envelope,” pressed Crisp. “Did you say to yourself, ‘at some future time I might want to make a note, so I will take this very awkward envelope, fold it up and put it in my pocket’?”

  Benscombe expected an outburst. But Fenchurch controlled himself—answered with strained amiability.

  “Aren’t we rather losing our sense of proportion? I don’t know how, or when, I first became possessed of that envelope. Moreover—if you don’t think me unsympathetic —I don’t care.”

  Crisp, about to invite Benscombe to intervene, decided to make one more effort.

  “I seem to have failed to make you understand, Fenchurch, that you yourself are under grave suspicion and that I am doing my utmost to help you clear yourself.”

  “And why the devil should I bother to clear myself!” exploded Fenchurch. “With all respect to your official position, Colonel, I warn you that you’ve let this unfortunate murder get on your nerves. You’re beginning to see life as a tapestry of clues to the murder of Watlington. Suspect me as much as you like, if you find it restful. But when you come down to earth, you’ll realise that Ralph’s confession will prevent the court from listening to your feverish little discoveries.”

  “The trouble is,” said Crisp, when Fenchurch had gone, “that fellow is right. We’re hamstrung by that confession.”

  “A bit o’ law sandwiched in with the artistic temperament, sir?” As Benscombe received no discouragement, he went on: “And the net result of that bid of comedy-business-with-pocket is that we’re left to conclude that Ralph handed it to him. Mrs. Cornboise, Querk, Claudia, Fenchurch—all contributing little items in support of Ralph’s confession!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Plea of guilty came into formal existence on the following morning when Ralph Cornboise was brought befor the local magistrates. After evidence of arrest, he was committed for trial, to be lodged in the meantime in the county gaol.

  “The dates are against us, Benscombe,” remarked Crisp when they were back at their desks. “He’ll be up at the Old Bailey in a fortnight. Gives us very little time-”

  Information and reports continued to pile up, though the torrent was spent. Ralph’s bachelor flat in the West End had been combed, yielding a couple of diaries and a drawer full of bills and receipts, which Benscombe was sorting.

  Half an hour later, as if there had been no break, Crisp added:

  “I don’t know whether Comboise is innocent or guilty. But if he’s hanged it will be because he’s a liar—or because he’s had an hallucination.”

  “Or because he can’t get Claudia out of his system?” suggested Benscombe.

  Crisp’s attention had drifted. But he remembered the words when the afternoon post brought a letter to Ralph from Fenchurch, addressed care of the Chief Constable.

  “This must go straight to the prison governor,” said Crisp. “And we shall have to wait for a typed copy.”

  Benscombe took the letter and placed it in the appropriate basket on his own desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said a minute later. “I’ve opened Fenchurch’s letter by mistake.”

  “Extremely careless of you!” grinned Crisp. “Bring it here.”

  “Do you think, sir, that Fenchurch has too much artistic temperament to know that we read prisoners’ letters?”

  “That’s the kind of thing you’ll have to find out while you’re sitting for him.”

  Crisp opened out the letter. The texture of the paper— the handwriting, the spacing, the phrasing—were those of a man who has his own scale of values.

  ‘Dear Ralph,

  I tried to see you yesterday, but there’s some ghastly ritual involving a policeman as chaperone. I think it’s going to be all right about Claudia. She definitely changed in her attitude to me after your departure. But obviously nothing can happen until you have settled down in Broadmoor. This sounds callous. But you know that I am not so, where my friends are concerned. While feeling a little tragic about you, I admire you tremendously for facing the music. Also, I am personally grateful, as I have been virtually arrested myself more than once. My peril seemed to distress Querk—I was civil to the oily bounder for your sake.

  I still fear complications over Tarranio. If he and that nervously energetic Chief Constable get together, I shall probably have to go formally mad, too. And join you in Broadmoor! I know a very good sort who has been there for a long time and likes it—I’ll write him to look out for you. You can have quite a decentish time there if you can do without women. I’ll keep in touch with you as long as I’m at large.

  Yours ever, Arthur Fenchurch.

  P.S.—I believe my policeman’s head is going to be good, though

  conventional—anyhow, it’s time I placated the critics.’

  Crisp passed the letter to Benscombe.

  “I was being too clever again, sir. He might want to feed us that he means to marry Claudia and provide for her future. But he wouldn’t give us the tip to tackle Tarranio.”

  “When will Tarranio be in London?”

  “Scheduled to arrive last night.”

  “Come along then!” Crisp delayed only to take from the dossier the relevant note: ‘Tarranio, Fabroli: Casa Flavia: May 2nd’ copied from the pencilled scrawl on Watlington’s blotting pad.

  An hour later they were outside the Casa Flavia, a large restaurant for Soho, with some forty tables. Tacked on was a wine shop and a staircase leading to the wholesale department, which they ascended. They were received by a Cockney typist, who presently showed them into the proprietor’s room.

  Except for his colouring, Tarranio would have passed for a London stockbroker of the old school. He wore a morning coat: a silk hat graced the top of a filing cabinet. His accent was good, though his idiom wavered.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Seat yourselves, please. If the law has been broken by my business the mistake is mine I’m sure.”

  “We have come to ask your help, Mr. Tarranio. I believe you are acquainted with a British subject who has spent some time in Casa Flavia—a Mr. Fenchurch?”

  “Arthur Fenchurch—artist, painter and artist?” Mr. Tarranio made it sound like a firm of solicitors. “Oh yes, I know him backwards and forwards. If you desire recognisances—or is it bail?—you count me in for a reasonable sum, please.”

  There came a faraway look in his eyes, then a reminiscent smile. “Assuredly, it is not a grave matter but only of a scandalous nature, eh? He is no criminal, though he owes me a little money.”

  “He is no criminal,” agreed Crisp. “But we have to find out what he has been doing—for his own sake, perhaps.

  I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell us all you know about his life at Casa Flavia.”


  “All I know? You will ask me to stop! He comes first to Casa Flavia when he is fourteen, with his father, who is also artist, sculptor and artist. The boy comes alone to my restaurant and becomes very drunk. Because he is so young and because he is so drunk, he brings me into public disgrace. That was the beginning of our friendship.

  “He comes often to Casa Flavia for his holiday. What is a holiday? For him a holiday is an extensive matter, you understand. He becomes one of the attractions to the tourists, because he is so rude to them, but to the Italians he is always polite. He eats at my restaurant and drinks much wine. At that of my neighbour Fabroli also, but that is Fabroli’s affair. At one time, he owes me what-is-in-sterling thirty-five pounds. For the debt, he paints a portrait of me. The portrait is scandalous and would seem to be intended for insult. I break our friendship. But a tourist sees the picture and offers me what-is-in-sterling fifty guineas. So our friendship is renewed and he again owes me what-is-in-sterling forty-two pounds. But I do not mind, for he does not understand business.”

  Here was an indulgent friend and admirer of Fenchurch, a fact which was not in itself helpful. Why should Fenchurch be afraid of him? Further probings produced only stories of ribald and riotous behaviour—of dreadful pictures painted on restaurant tablecloths with mustard and lipstick.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Tarranio,” said Crisp, concealing his disappointment. “His life seems to be blameless, as far as my profession is concerned.”

  “Ah yes! Crime is not for him. He would think it a game with the police, and he would tell you first how clever he was going to be. Before you go, Colonel Crisp, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me, may I ask, how is the health of Madame—Mrs. Fenchurch?” For Crisp, this was a trial in tact. Did Tarranio mean Glenda? Benscombe came to his rescue.

  “When I went to Fenchurch’s flat, sir, he was living alone.”

  “That is bad. But we feared it would be so!” sighed Tarranio. “The lady, I hope is not too distressed. She also is much admired in Casa Flavia. Courtesy. Charm. Even beauty also.

  That, thought Crisp, was not the impression which Glenda would make on an Italian.